


Sweet Talker, Cinnamon Kisser

by coolbeansandtimemachines



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baking, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbeansandtimemachines/pseuds/coolbeansandtimemachines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So,  one day I was baking a cake, and remembered something my food technology teacher told me years ago. She was basically justifying food tech as a subject by saying how cooking and baking could be seen as a science. Anyways, I thought about it, and thought it might be cute if baking was a secret little passion of Sherlock's. So I wrote this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Talker, Cinnamon Kisser

John fumbled with the heavy shopping bags as he tried to unlock the door of 221B with his arms full of the week's groceries.

"A hand would be nice now and then, Sherlock!" he shouted as he stumbled across the threshold, cursing under his breath as a tin of beans squeezed its way out of the Tesco bag.

As usual, there was no response from upstairs. Only the sound of classical music drifting through the air…and an unfamiliar smell. Unfamiliar to 221B at any rate, yet it reminded John of something. Childhood. Summers. Hugs from his grandmother. Laughing and clapping and sweetness.

John struggled up the stairs, dumping the carrier bags just inside the door.

"Sherlock, what are –" he stopped. And stared.

"Did you remember the sugar, John?" Sherlock asked, reaching over the counter and sifting some fine, white powder into a bowl, already containing some form of brown, creamy paste.

"Yes, I…what are you…are you _baking_?" John was incredulous, staring at his flatmate, the world's only consulting detective, bustling around the kitchen and concocting something that apparently wasn't a potentially dangerous experiment.

"Fantastic deduction Doctor Watson," the younger man smirked, "My skills must be rubbing off on you."

John sank onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar, watching, amazed.

"Didn't have you down as the baking type." He said, a little bemusedly.

"Really?" Sherlock looked genuinely shocked. "Why ever not?"

John raised an eyebrow. "How long have you got?"

"As long as it takes for this cake to bake." Sherlock smiled, pouring the mixture into a cake tin. "Go on – enlighten me."

John smiled. "Ok, first of all, you hardly ever eat."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not having this argument with you again. Next."

John folded his arms, biting his tongue to stop himself from having another argument about Sherlock's all too unpredictable eating habits. "Ok, you're not exactly domestic."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"You don't clean, you don't cook, the only time you use this kitchen is for your experiments."

"Wrong."

"Which part?"

"I clean up as much as I think is necessary to be sanitary. And I cook."

John opened his mouth to argue, then realised what Sherlock had just said. "Sherlock, in all the time I have lived with you, you have never cooked."

"I have, you've just never seen me."

"And why is that."

Sherlock shrugged. "I…I'm training myself to eat more, I really am. I just…get hungry at odd times of the day."

John frowned. "How so?"

"Sometimes the idea of eating in the day makes me feel nauseous. So I eat at night, or early in the morning."

"Oh." John had noticed over time that Sherlock's eating habits were improving. He had taken to snacking if Mrs Hudson ever brought them a pot of something up. He was starting to steal food from John's plate in public when they stopped to breathe from a case. He even ate a starter last time they went to Angelo's. Nevertheless, the only things John had seen Sherlock eating seemingly with no trouble, were sweet things.

"Look," Sherlock paused to lick a little cake mix off the back of his hand. "I'll cook tonight."

"Ok then." John smiled. "I'm looking forward to this."

"Fine." Sherlock grinned, turning to put the cake tin in the oven.

"So go on then," he encouraged. "Tell me about the baking."

Sherlock shrugged, gathering up the various utensils and shoving them in the dishwasher. "I've always done it – for as long as I can remember. Mycroft and I always used to watch our mother whipping up pies, pastries, cakes, scones. Mycroft was always more fond of consuming them than I but always found it _fascinating_." He turned the appliance on and came to sit next to John.

John shook his head. "I still don't get it. It's just not _you_."

"It's a science, John. Baking, cooking, it's a science." Sherlock eyes lit up, and he leant forward earnestly.

"I realise people see it as a hobby, or an art form, or a typically feminine skill, but to me it really is a science. You take the ingredients, and they have to be exactly the right kind. Caster sugar over granulated. Self-raising flour or plain. Vanilla essence or cocoa powder or cinnamon or lemon zest. You measure them out, and it has to be precise. Ten grams either way can ruin it. You mix them together, in the right order, to the correct consistency. And then you cook that mixture, once again precision being the key – the right container, the right temperature, the right amount of time."

John nodded, a grin spreading across his face at the enthusiasm Sherlock was exuding. "And then you have a cake."

Sherlock nodded. "And then you have a cake." He agreed, getting up and going to the fridge. "I made this earlier – I thought you might want something sweet when you got in." he turned round, proudly placing an apple pie on the counter between them.

John's eyes flicked over the golden crust, and he inhaled the sweet smell. "This looks amazing, Sherlock."

"I should hope so – the cinnamon sticks cost a bloody fortune." Sherlock cut into the pastry, sliding a thick slice carefully onto a plate. He carefully pierced a little piece with a fork and offered it to John. John grinned, leaning across and taking the piece into his piece. The flavour exploded in his mouth –the apple filling had the perfect texture, a tanginess underlying the sweetness. The cinnamon complimented it perfect. The pastry had just the right amount of crispiness to it.

"This is…incredible, Sherlock."

John didn't think he had ever seen Sherlock look so proud. "Do you really think so?" The detective smiled.

"Definitely." John nodded, forking another piece into his mouth. "You are…incredible."

He got up and came round the counter. Sherlock turned to accept the closeness as John slid his arms round Sherlock's waist.

"How is it," John murmured. "That I have ended up with someone who is brilliant, unique, intellectual, _and_ can bake?"

Sherlock smiled, a little lost in thought.

"You're trying to think of a baking pun aren't you?" asked John.

"I've got nothing." Sherlock murmured, smiling.

"Shut up then." John pressed his lips to Sherlock, who leaned into the kiss, eagerly tasting the sweet infusions as their tongues pressed together. After only a few moments John pulled away, grabbing the apple pie and putting it back in the fridge.

"You don't want any more?" Sherlock asked, a little confused.

"No, I do. But I can't do vigorous activity when I've eaten too much." John winked, pulling Sherlock into a deep kiss and pushing them both towards the bedroom.

Sherlock smirked. "You taste like cinnamon anyway." He whispered into John's mouth.


End file.
